


Small Print 1: Flashbacks

by TheFierceBeast, VioletSmith



Series: Small Print [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ambivalence, Blood Kink, Bloodplay, Crobby - Freeform, Cutting, Demon Deals, Exhibitionism, Flashbacks, Guilt, Guilty Pleasures, Hell Flashbacks, Knife Kink, Knifeplay, M/M, Voyeurism, hot bear on bear action, technically non consensual but tricky to tag please read summary for warnings!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-27 01:13:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12070692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast, https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletSmith/pseuds/VioletSmith
Summary: Bobby pawns his soul to Crowley and starts to get flashbacks to a brief time in Hell that he really, really shouldn't enjoy as much as he does.





	Small Print 1: Flashbacks

**Author's Note:**

> This'll be a multi part series. Knife play, blood play. It'll be fluffier than it sounds. This chapter warning for dubious consent in terms of no fore-warning of standard Hell procedure that Bobby shouldn't be able to recall afterwards. The actual 'torture' isn't sexualised, just his recollection of it, but warning just in case that might be a no-no for some people.

He _knows_ it first, before any physical senses kick in. The unsettling feeling of eyes upon him as he struggles in a fog that feels like dreaming, like waking slow from unconsciousness. Where'd he been last? A job? A knock to the head? Bobby groans, tries to shift and finds his limbs useless, frozen, as if he's floating suspended in air.  
There's a voice in his ear, a familiar voice, soft and dangerous, a wildcat voice, all purr and growl. "Hush," it says, and it seems to come from no fixed point, to float around him and _in_ him, and Bobby is sure he knows that voice. "Be still. It’ll take longer if you struggle."  
  
Struggle. He tries, fails. His skin prickles, pins and needles that flare from icy to burning, shivering across his whole body... He's naked, he realises, and that feeling of eyes upon him crawls like a touch.  
The indignant yell in his chest makes it past his lips as a choked moan. When he wills his eyes open, finally, he slits them against the sting of smoke, the stench of blood and sulphur like a fist around his throat.  
  
There are black eyes all around him. Demons. Staring at him. Some of them scornful, some disinterested, others openly delighted. Panic flares in Bobby's chest. "Don't look at them," the voice says. Crowley's voice, Bobby realises, clarity returning to him. "Look at me." He looks. Tries to. Crowley's face swims in and out of focus, red-eyed and blurry with smoke and heat-haze. He swallows, his throat tight, eyes wild, streaming from the fumes. "That's it. Stay with me. It's just you and me, getting this little bit of business dealt with and then you can be on your merry way." Crowley's mouth isn't moving. Bobby isn't sure, but he suspects he's the only one hearing it. Wouldn't put it past the sneaky bastard to be tricking him, though. His eye is caught by the glint of metal in Crowley's hand, and the panic rises again, threatens to choke him from the inside out.  
  
His muscles tense, trying to thrash, but that dreamlike stillness has him paralysed. The hush of Crowley's voice comes from far away, soothing and oddly concerned. Bobby squeezes his eyes closed, breathing harsh through his nose, but he can still feel those black eyes on him, witnessing his helplessness, those red eyes on him...  
The first touch is a jolt. A hand on his shoulder, warm and dry and so gentle it's barely there. Somehow he knows it's Crowley.

"This won't do, love," Crowley whispers, regretfully. "You're too tense. It'll hurt less if you can relax." There's sudden static where Crowley's touching him, pins and needles. A liquid warmth pours through Bobby's body, rich and sweet as honey, loosening his muscles, making him feel heavy and slow. It's a little like being drunk, Bobby thinks, the good sort of drunk, all mellow and drowsy - though his mind is still somehow clear. It shouldn't feel good, this lack of control. It _doesn't_ , Bobby corrects himself. But he can't fight it anymore, whatever the demon's doing to him. "That's right. Just let me work. It'll be over before you know it and you can forget all about this... little technicality."  
The first touch of metal doesn't even hurt. Just an odd, warm sensation, stroking across his bicep. When Bobby's eyes flick open a second later, he sees that flash of silver again. His mouth fills with spit, skin wet with sweat, a sudden flood of adrenaline. And he can't move. He can't scream. His infernal audience is watching his undoing and the path of the blade sings exquisite pain. And it feels _good_... His breath shudders out his lungs. A demon nearby laughs, and Crowley fixes it with a look that has it falling instantly silent again, almost stumbling in its haste to step back. The knife moves again; tiny, confident movements, and it _hurts_ , yes, there's no doubt about that. But Bobby has had his fair share of pain in his time - more than his share, some might say, and this does not rank as highly as he might have expected. The initial sting is fading to warmth. The cuts aren't very deep, physically, but Bobby can feel that there's more beneath the surface. Something sinking into his skin, going deep, taking hold. His lips part, and he makes a sound that has Crowley's eyes snapping up to catch and hold his gaze. "That's it," Crowley purrs, after a moment. "Let those endorphins do their job."  
  
Bobby's heart hammers. Endorphins, then, he supposes. Not a response to that calm voice. The pain dulls to a throb, spreading, blanketing his body. Tingling wet as a warm bath. He can feel his pulse, everywhere: his throat, the crook of his elbows, the backs of his knees, between his legs. Another small sound makes its way past his lips.  
He's hyper aware of his nudity. The leers of the demon audience they've attracted. The syrupy drip of his own blood down his arm, the smell of it thick in the air. "Still with me, pet?" Crowley asks, and Bobby wants to shake his head to clear it but can't. Even his voice is sluggish, barely under his control.

"It... it hurts," he says, stupidly.

Crowley's smile goes no further than his eyes. "Yes, it does. Apologies if you were expecting otherwise." He drags the knife point in a minute horizontal line at the crook of Bobby's elbow and Bobby's throat, newly loosened, lets out a moan that has Crowley tutting affectionately. "You're making it rather hard to concentrate, darling."

"Why are you..." The question dies on his lips at a fresh stroke of the blade. Each cut is burning. The pain is less unwelcome than he could have ever expected.

Crowley shushes him again, quietly. Fingertips flutter, across his belly and the noise Bobby makes sounds close to a whine. "We've a long way to go yet, love. Can you hold out for me?"

"Yeah." It's out before Bobby even has time to second guess himself.  
  
"Good," Crowley says, and the word sends more warmth through Bobby.  
  
Time blurs. Drifts. Crowley is cutting every inch of Bobby's body, and the blood loss has his head swimming, dizzy and drunk on the chemicals his body is flooding him with in compensation. His entire body feels like an open wound, cuts scrawled over his right arm, shoulder, chest, his belly. It hurts, Christ, it hurts so much now that Bobby is barely aware of Crowley parting his legs, though the sting when the knife touches the soft, sensitive skin of his inner thigh is so intense that he cries out. It's overwhelming. It's too much, it's past the point of too much, Bobby can't take it anymore.

"Of course you can," Crowley chides, calmly, not even looking up from his work. His hands are tacky with Bobby's blood.

"Please." He's not sure any longer if he's asking for _stop_ or _more_. It's nothing he's felt before; he's floating on it, unmoored, the steady progress of the blade his only anchor.

"I've got you, sweetheart. Don't worry."

Bobby tries to focus on Crowley. The shape of him there, between Bobby's legs. He barely has enough blood pressure left to blush, but his body still attempts it at the sight. Crowley's tie is loosened, and there's a red smudge on his cheek that Bobby doesn't want to think about too closely. He's never seen the demon like this. Frowning in concentration. Handling the knife as comfortably as another man might hold a pen. Bobby's head swims, and he tells himself it's shock.

"You're cutting me," he says, and his speech is more slurred than he hoped.

"Hmm," Crowley murmurs in agreement. His hands are steady as the earth. He's entirely focused on his task, on the blade moving higher, closer to the vulnerable softness of Bobby's genitals, held as immobile as the rest of Bobby's body below the neck. "And I'm not going to stop until this is completed."  
  
"Crowley." Bobby says. His voice is quiet. Fading. It sounds like pleading. The first careful touch of hands between his legs pulls a groan from the bones of him-

  
  
-"Don't stop." The jolt nearly tips Bobby out of bed, the wild flailing of limbs that are uncoordinated in their freedom wrapping the sweat-wringing sheets around his legs. His own sheets. His own bed. Alone. Bobby moans, a dismayed noise, his chest heaving. Nothing answers him, just the steady tick of his alarm clock, mundane and reassuring. He nearly knocks it over in his hurry to switch on the bedside lamp, running hands across his arms, his belly, unmarked beneath his t-shirt except for the pale crisscross of old scars. _Don't_ he'd said, waking. _Stop_. Hadn't he? His cock is stiff, aching between his thighs. Bobby runs a shaky hand across his face and turns over, facing the light.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading! We hope you enjoyed. This one's dedicated to Kirsten! :)


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